Chapter 1
The world, so it seems, erupts with life in the days leading up toward the Winter Solstice—the longer nights, the brighter sky, people doing last minute shopping at Target or 99 Ranch Market, walking, hustling, calling (with a soft indoor voice) their children running about, laughing, picking and choosing snacks for the new year. Walking slowly, inspecting the produce, thinking perhaps this taro or that might be good for the new year oden pot, I let myself be wrapped in this festive air, first-time yet accustomed, in this suburb 50-minute away from San Francisco via BART.
Perhaps the tropical heat still burning within my flesh was the reason that these mundane wintry nights appeared so magical. Having left my hometown for almost a decade now, I put away the things I had—the briny breeze, the oppressive coastal air, the vertical sunbeam searing my uncovered neck when I rode my scooter through Saigon’s compact streets, the traffic jam, the unreasonable population density of a developing country, the honking of cars and mini trucks, the insults, the taunts, the stares, the sidelooks, the squish and squeeze because there is no space, an accepted kind of invasion against personal space. I left them all, not truly behind, but perhaps somewhere in a drawer of my cranium.
In return I welcomed the dry and cold, the cloudclad and evergloomy sky, the changing of seasons in which withering winds remove all traces of air luxuriant, a wider plain, a larger space, and shallower roots—foreign lands. When I first arrived they did not bother me, not one bit, for there was a certain kind of apathy within me, a sense of detachment, an inclination toward passivity, letting everything come without a second thought, without support nor resistance. I lived my life by inertia, without a sense of direction, and without any appreciation.
So it was a day of absolute joy when I declared to myself that I should pursue the highest taste of coffee, for I had detested the beverage. Detested. A strong word for a strong emotion, thus I held it dear to my heart. And perhaps similar to many people, I was not fond of coffee in my tender years, thinking it tasted like tarmac (not that I’ve ever tried the real thing). It was the taste of adult life, I was often told, intense with lingering bitterness, a long road stretching from one’s hometown to the city, seemingly endless, slowly dropping through the phin filter into tobacco smoke, staining one’s teeth and nostrils in the dispersed sunlight. “What’s the fun in that?” I often wondered, remembering my father sitting for hours by his phin, going through a pack of cigarettes on a Sunday morning. Maybe something was missing and coffee was delicious, else what would the reason be for its popularity?
So I thought, naively, and began my tasting journey, a journey which would be revealed by piecemeal, bit by bit, and that is to say not today. But despite my flawed logic, something good came to be: an interest in taste and sensation, through which I looked for the so-called sweetness in coffee, the acidity, the bitterness, the mouthfeel, and the astringency, committing to memory the ingredients I smelled and tasted, the scent of flowers and their corresponding names: the zesty bergamot, the tangy rose, the serene lavender, the petrichoric honeysuckle, and so on.
The development of the palette brought about an appreciation of the natural world, and then for the first time I understood the smoldering ache from within my heart, kindled since the day I left my hometown—nostalgia. Never has the difference between what I saw and what I had seen was so vivid. The huge oak trees, the wild yarrow, or hydrangeas planted on the front door, these are so different from the mimosa on the sandy road, or fiery-red phoenix flowers; or that the expansive grassy hills rolling into the sea were so different from jungle-trees hanging over the mountain pass. Yet it was not the kind of pain that bears sorrow and sadness, but a soothing kind that reminds me of the treasures I had left and would return to.
Until then I would embrace these memories, belonging to none and both at the same time, but it is far better to hope than to despair, and in that suburb near San Francisco, for a moment, I felt a sense of belonging, despite knowing that I would never stay there—a tropical wind in the Winter Solstice.
It had been over a year since I first put this bag of coffee on my wishlist, and then for some reason completely forgot about it (a lamentable but all-too-common fate for all things on this type of list, since the same happened to my games and books and chores). But finally, on a day in February, by chance I fished the memory out from the cold dark mud of oblivion and ordered the bag—oppressed, at the time, by a sense of ennui, since all the coffee I had in my little cupboard, although decent, was not too terribly exciting (certainly not the kind that makes me listlessly stare into the cloudy, snowy Sunday sky). I was in dire need of a weekend coffee.
That was how this 250g bag of coffee1 found its way into my apartment by the end of winter (which, on a side note, was the first proper winter in quite some time for me). And the cup did not disappoint. Hydrangea is, of course, an exceptional roaster, and their taste notes are surprisingly accurate (even if they seem to be impossible). What you see is what you really get. But simply restating the taste would do us no good here. For, at the very least, taste is a subjective matter, and relating them in the most objective and scientific manner is not the purpose of this post. Therefore, what I will do instead is to describe the sensation after the first sip.
I opened the bag about three weeks after the roasting date on a Sunday, cloudy as usual with its sub-zero degree. 18 grams, 300 ml water, 95 degrees Celsius, with a continuous pour. Steam slowly spiraled upward, curling with the morning’s cold air, diffusing a sweet, fruity scent throughout my room. After three minutes, I set the carafe onto the floor table, sat down and took a sip.
And that was when it hit me—the memory. Or rather, the memory that I’ve never remembered—a long-lost Sunday, walking under streaks of golden sunlight and patches of verdant leaves, drifting past streams of unfamiliar faces, entering a tea parlor filled with a grassy freshness of light oolong, with people laughing and conversing, with someone making something in the back (it must have been waffle, judging from the eggy fragrance in the air). That was what it tasted like: a sweet nostalgia for a life I never lived, a patchwork of memories stitched together into a coherent fantasy.
What an ironic case. A cup I forgot about gave me a memory I never had. All of it vivid, and none of it real. But maybe that’s what good coffee does (or just good things in general). It fills in the gaps. Of time, of taste, of memory. It makes the grey February sky feel golden. It gives you something to hold onto, even if that something is nothing but a mirage. This is, indeed, a great cup of coffee.
We usually reserved Saturday mornings for Verve. Blue train to Montgomery, then the light rail toward the South; we stood waiting at the platform; wind blew at our faces, brisk and persistent, swirling the anxiety, as I watched the Asian seniors, wave after wave, that I was nothing more than a guest in this scene.
Red brick, triangular, a 3-storey building gradually revealed itself—a signal to pull the bell cord, for the voice announcement had gone lost and vision obstructed when we were packed on that ancient street car. As much as I loved the spirit of a metro area, life had worn us out. At some point in the late Spring, we remained still on the blue train, putting down our Modiano and Petronius to watch people rushing in and out, entering and leaving the platform. We had skipped two stops; abstract sculptures spread on walls of the station where we got off; natural light dripping into the tunnel through the wide-open hatchway, making it feel like the eye of the Pantheon.
A quarter to 12, the canelés were still resting behind the prepping counter, but the young clerk was nice enough to make us an exception. The dark shell made a crackling sound when bitten, cutting into the moist custard—they were at their peak. Everything was still warm; then a faint scent of orange zest, melding with the earthy smell of wild flowers as we were heading toward the public park; a bush of golden yarrow in full bloom.
A vast sun-kissed area resided on a hilltop under the pure blue sky; little humans lying around resembled jimmies sprinkled on a fairy floss. A person, stylish in khaki pants and ankle socks and sunglasses, passed by; pieces of kale leaves peeked out from the paper grocery bag in their arms. Gathered in a local yarn store people of all ages, seemingly a knitting workshop as the lady was holding a couple of gauge swatches, speaking to the rest of the crowd. On the grass the retrievers and shepherds sprinted around; ears flapped, while the soft breeze rippled through their hair. And along the hillside, the variegated Edwardian houses, gorgeous yet solemn, watched over this neighborhood.
We strolled along the sidewalk, beneath the shade of those great palms; admiring the paperflower and morning glory climbing over the fence of a house whose owner we did not know; enjoying this calm, still air until we saw a café looking too communist for this country. And that was the corner to turn, as Verve was almost very close by.
A tall pencil cactus greeted us at the genkan-like entryway, leading our way to the coffeehouse. The guy wearing headphones at the communal table looked hyperfocused on a code snippet, his mug emptied; then a young lady, glass halved of matcha latte, clicked around on Canva, more relaxed; and a man in a suit jacket, and jeans, sat behind a Mac Air with two or three espresso cups stacked up. Wooden flooring, an abundance of indoor plants made this space welcoming and cozy. Disordered stools toward the back were doubled as mini coffee tables, full of mugs and glasses. Small groups of people sat along the wide window, having individual conversations on a shared bench; gentle tones the way they spoke and chuckled, subtle cues of backchanneling; that had filled the room with a kind of merriment, weaving into the roasty and creamy aroma wafting from the espresso counter.
The barista pressed down the tamper. His body shifted slightly forward, leaning onto his blacked-out left arm. An apprentice wouldn’t have bothered that much, for tamping in their sequences was just another task to check off. The shop was in a busy hour; grinders humming, milk boxes popped open, and steam wand hissing; but all of that did not seem to agitate this person’s pace. He filled the glass just two-thirds full of ice; then ran a quick flush before locking in the portafilter, and without lifting his eyes from the shot he passed the milk pitcher to someone beside. His deliberate movements, like a veil dancing, quietly obscured the counter’s chaos. Then all of a sudden, a rare moment of eye contact—with me?—as he placed the drink at the pick-up station. And a little wooden tray came out—our order!
Those were our iced oat mocha and pour-over!
Under the metallic tube a Kalita Wave was still dripping its last drops into an emptied Beehive; thin steam rising from the flat-bed device. At least the pour was properly transferred to a mini clear carafe, served along with a white porcelain cup. We brought our order to a standing bar facing Market Street, waiting for the pour to breathe a bit more; chatting about roasters, about Red Door in the meantime; watching streetcars riding up and down the hill. The pour was a bit burnt, but still clean and fruity; tasting like 1:17, round and consistent; a light touch of floral aroma. But the mocha, the mocha was just—sublime.
Chapter 2
The all-of-sudden scorching heat of June had marked the start of a cold drink season.
Or I had decided so, as an excuse to pull me out of this room. For it was an incomplete collection, I thought, looking at the line-up at my brewing corner; Wilder Lazo, Burundi Lot #5, Edwin Noreña; all were too thin to make anything cold. Written in my plan notes two months ago, typed out in my messages to Nam, tracked through my order receipts from both Subtext and September, was that this bunch missed a blend; a light-roast, medium-body, fruity blend; from a coffee shop downtown.
The world out there, I thought while looking for a sleeveless to go with my summer dress; Akiko’s hem was stuck in bicycle chains, and torn apart, when she rode uphill. But worry not! I thought, zipping up the sun jacket; something good might happen, to make me think going outside wasn’t that bad; slipping on my sandals; it would be alright; locking the door behind.
There was this route longer but stiller than the main avenue; first cross the white pedestrian ridge, then pass through a couple residential areas. Brunch places spread along the sidewalks, filled with young adults; eggs benedict and avocado toast enlarged on the A-frames. Following these highrise buildings revealed a series of lower but still modern condos, characterized by glass railings with black frames, then a park located in the heart of the neighborhood—as if someone had disassembled District 7, then used a jute rope to tie a few flashy pieces together and labelled this luxury. Light rays reflected off the glass windows; heat radiated from the ground, rippling the stagnant urban air.
It was also June when we walked around Hayes Valley to find Ritual. Some people were kickflipping outside of the Container when we arrived; graffiti running on the wall; and art installations scattered around the oblong public park. The beans were packed by 12 ounces; a tall tin-tie bag, red color with a questionable logo. But the place, or the whole Patricia’s Green area, felt coherent—a hippie, liberal community was my impression as a visitor spending only three nights in this city. And given the vibe, we picked Brazil, among Costa Rica and Honduras and Colombia stacked on the little shelf. How South America they were, I said to Nam; which then became a curse. Despite our 168 grams of effort, everything, the roast, the size, the profile, by fundamentals wasn't meant for us.
We had been searching for Red Door in every possible corner of America for more than 2 years, only to realize our own place had always been one.
A fine layer of mist left from a shower the night before, thinner than the Letty Bermudez Geisha, ponderously wrapped the early morning of October. Business was slow on Friday, giving a perfect mood to brew Ethiopia as I was expecting to fully enjoy its resting journey at home. Then an outage happened, which brought my weekend coffee to work. The building was quiet; a couple humans presented, but slow and chill. And since someone asked, I passed my 300cc glass around. How is it now? I wondered, for not taking a sip since arriving; must be cold but develop more fruity flavors—and to one’s astonishment, blown away by a very-berry hurricane, the person gave effusive praise to the cup, filling the silent floor with his “incredible, incredible.”
I have gone this far, I thought, crossing over the light rails, making someone so amazed that they started a brewing station right at their desk, asking about my beans, my gears, even my ratios; for everyone was what they said. But I had this fear of being absorbed; just a slip of the tongue, dropping names and labels, I would be swept away by a strong, brutal current and fed to the ocean’s abysses.
“What do you want your coffee to taste like?” I asked, rowing against it.
“Just the bag you got last time,” he responded, “what was it called?”
All those trips across America weren’t a waste. They had compiled themselves a Dadaism “art” work that I still carry and set as wallpaper wherever I go, to remind myself of an idea that I must never become. No experience nor ambition, only a desire of not being absorbed that had laid my hand on the gooseneck kettle; taking me to pick glasswares and meet roasters; Heart, Cat & Cloud, Little Wolf—all so lovely; then came a whole year of testing paper, trying new techniques to perfect the brews of Hydrangea and Prodigal; like sediments deposited over seasons; all this; formed an even terrain against those wicked currents; and yet, not even once had I asked the owner of Red Door her recipe, her grind set. For I had learned deeply, as watching herself poured into each cup, that nothing in this world could ape this beauty of simplicity.
Nothing but yourself, I thought, poor creature; pulling the heavy swing door, entering the café.
The barista, the only staff at the moment, who was in the middle of preparing an espresso shot, smiled at me, then made an apologetic sign; I slightly nodded back. Since I’m already here, I thought, what to get now? pomegranate lemonade, mango matcha, something-fizz; americano, mocha, latté; and nitro cold brew, of course. People would do anything; infused nitrogen, added flavored syrups, topped milk foam; and the drinks got more confusing and insipid; a show of faux creativity. For where the foundation laid in their creation I could not see, of cold brewing as a method and of other ingredients, other techniques that got built into the drink; failed to rationalize the combinations and thus the sincerity of one’s craft as found in Phê La’s magnolia roasted milk tea, or Pasteur’s Jasmine IPA—I’ve never complained about them.
Effort poured into tuning an amalgam that worked, I thought as taking my glass and a bio straw to a window seat; I’d rather enjoy a simple naked brew of the Summer 2019; hot and stagnant as the urban air had always been, but damper than this when we both sat beneath the shade of plumeria and banana trees at the original house. A fresh scent of tropical herbs, the sound of small streams gurgling over the pebbles and terracotta breeze blocks, sailed from the garden into the house, passed through my hair, wrapped my body; a mellow sweetness of licorice lingered in my throat. Mini ice cubes floated in a tilted highball glass; there was no foam nor syrup; just pure coffee.
For what’s worth doing is worth doing well.
It was in the summer of 2019 when I (who was still an utter novice in the world of coffee) first encountered the Nordic roasting style, having just discovered a small but remarkable coffee shop called Red Door (its entrance, naturally, was painted in the same hue). The owner of said shop, who was quite dedicated in teaching me about coffee (as she poured for me cups after cups and guided me toward discerning the subtle differences on my palette), was evidently very serious about reaching the height of these beans.
At some point amid our conversations, I noticed—aside from the striking red ceramic V60 perched on the mounted shelf, aside from Lê Cát Trọng Lý’s whispery music gently permeating through the room—the majority of bags on displayed, some tucked neatly into little boxes on the counter and some lined upright in neat little rows, bore the same name: Sey.
At that time I was already aware of Sey’s reputation, for it was (and still is) renowned for producing an ultra light and clean cup, which was essentially the Nordic roasting style. Thus, wishing to bring a bit of that clarity into my mornings, I bought two 250-gram bags (about 9 oz), making sure that these beans were only a week after the roasting date. I imagined, optimistically, that with beans this fresh, the results at home could only be phenomenal.
Carefully, I opened the bags the next morning, noticing a faintly fruity and waxy scent (one which I would later associate with other Nordic roasts). Having scooped out 18 grams, I brewed my first cup. Over the white ceramic V60 my hands tightened, holding the kettle, letting a quiet trepidation guide my swirl, all the while anticipating an encounter with an ideal that was all hyped up inside my head.
What a predicament I set up for myself! For in that morning so serene when I ought to find what I sought, I was left in a state of aporia. Muddy, chaotic, without a sense of direction. What was the smell? What was the taste? Acidic? Of what kind? Was it a vertical kind of sour like lemon, or horizontal like vinegar? Was it sweet, or was it bitter? The texture was certainly clean, but I could not discern anything further than that. What was the problem? Where did I go wrong? It seemed the beans were quite difficult to crack, and I must understand why.
So I pressed on, daily, diligently, and somewhat scientifically: changing the grind size, varying the temperature, switching up the pouring style, playing with the dosage, each parameter was singled out for examination. In one month 500 grams quickly turned into 250, and then 100, yet nothing ever came out right. Some days turned out okay, for the floral notes were there and maybe something savory, but most days turned into a swirl of muted flavor draped over by a wax curtain, all dissipated quickly after one mere sip.
It was not until the final cup, no sooner than two months from the roasting day, that I managed to hit the high once tasted in that coffee shop. The smell of mandarins, the winey taste of Hershey chocolate syrup, a grassy aftertaste that reminded me of my grandfather’s green tea; and when I left it be for an hour or two, the taste evolved into a kind of black tea. That was it. Eureka! The pellucid complexity of a Nordic roast, one that can be dissected yet somehow merged together. That was the nuance I sought, a kind of individuality that adds to its collective, but not losing itself. O how interesting it was!
Hot steam rose in the sunroom of the tropics while I noted my findings, overjoyed; yet a joy so brief, for at that point nothing was left for me. No more chances and no more retries. So I was once again left in a state of aporia. What was the correct factor? Why did the final time work? I couldn’t find any major change that would create such a drastic difference. I could only guess. And so I guessed on. My next Nordic bag, and another, and another. All the same: a chaotic beginning, a miraculous ending.
Fickle coffee, capricious cup, I could never understand. Not until 2024 at least, having looked in hindsight, mourning for beans wasted and years gone by, I realized the fatal mistake. For it has never been the temperature, nor the grind size, nor the way I swirl my cup, but time.
Time! It was time, of course, since every bag of coffee needs time to develop (not unlike us), usually a month or two, and maybe even more depending on how light it was. In the summer of 2025, I decided to try my hands on some Sey coffee bags again, but this time letting it rest for six weeks (I did brew once at a three-week rest mark for the name of science, or perhaps impetuousness). As it turned out, when keeping the same parameters, the three-week brew gave the familiar chaotic taste, while the other bloomed with plum and lemongrass. It was clear to me then: for years I was looking for a problem that has never been, being so preoccupied with the technique, disregarding the beans themselves, as I wilfully looked away, filling in familiar spreadsheets and doing calibrations, for they are much simpler than analyzing and understanding the nebulous whole. But alas, to think in the long run what harm it has done!
Như thể mình đang kẹt trên một cái máy chạy bộ, mọi người xung quanh ai cũng tiến về phía trước, chỉ có mình mình, dù cũng đang chạy như điên nhưng vẫn đứng yên tại chỗ.2
Zen3 had written so on the release of her new shot, after disappearing for over three years. Where was she heading to? I wondered while watching the citrus peels curling up, shiny under the oven light; the coming batches would hit different as I firmly believed. Pink pomelo, or the whole pomelo family in general, tasted slightly bitter; for one was misplaced in the cara-cara crate, and I mistook—but it shouldn’t affect the profile that much, I assured myself, standing up to check the cupboard above my head. The Kenya–Costa-Rica blend was out; those peels must go with the Yunnan or Honduras beans from Rabbit Hole.
The last couple batches were a curse.
Sun-dried peel was an awful idea; the taste profile, the process method; couldn’t help with the herbal earthy flavor of licorice; pungent like those evening rides in the dead silence of District 6; dim lights, doors left ajar; an oppression permeating corners and alleys of the wholesale markets; and the hospitals and medical centers; the aesthetic of a dying urban area, or an Oriental apothecary, that I had romanticized when pairing the ingredients.
And once again, Yunnan landed on my feelings at 2PM on the first Saturday of August. Its astringent taste and medium-light body, quite close to the profile of oolong tea, would be a symphony with licorice and citrus peels. But I might as well give this Honduras bag a chance, I thought. So there I started turning the crank of my hand grinder.
The crisp sound of beans fractured as I kept turning fused with the images of Blanche; straight hair, some bit of freckles; a beautiful face covered in deep melancholy, as Zen’s universe since debut had always been; and a coarse body not hers; it’s so strange, Lam stated—it was surely strange; for ten years had passed and Zen was still Zen; calm, delicate, and disturbing; perpetually four seasons cycled, as there were no more beans to grind, Zen was still Zen.
I transferred the coffee ground to the filter chamber. Then came the dried licorice; 4 broken pieces; or 3 full—yup, also worked—7.2 grams; the mellow after taste I loved; but they must be soaked in water first, to alleviate that cursed flavor.
Confined by a truth seen at Oriental medicine stores I had set myself on a treadmill in the search of a golden ratio; an average logic that I had fallen into; but the closer you look, the less you see. Beyond one’s belief there were always greater truths: sun-dried mandarin peel was never meant for this job of cold brewing.
So I stepped out of that endless run, to watch from afar the untold variables; the aroma and the texture, for instance, and the interaction between ingredients; things that never seemed comprehensible to a hasty, aggressive creature. For however clear and straightforward all that were laid out, it would always come back to impose its ideas of changing this, adding that, which, at a grand scheme, were only variants of a single instance weight.
And it mattered no more, I thought, turning off the stove; losing myself to those arguments; how futile they all were, as I was seeking other’s trust in my very own intuition, my theories. But what I loved was just right here, in front of me; the filter chamber floating in the bottle; these rituals; my sharp, quiet self whether it was snowstorm or sunshine outside the window.
Among ten thousand I chose my truth. Only that, I thought, would have been enough. Closing the fridge door, I returned to my desk and started writing “Batch #7: 45g Honduras RHR…”